Enter Quomodo, his disguised spirits [Shortyard and Falselight as citizens], after whom Easy follows hard
SHORTYARD
Made fools of us! Not to be found!
QUOMODO
What, what?
EASY
Do not undo me quite, though, Master Quomodo.
QUOMODO
You’re very welcome, Master Easy. I ha’ nothing to say to you; I’ll not touch you, you may go when you please. I have good bail here, I thank their worships.
EASY
What shall I say, or whom shall I beseech?
SHORTYARD
Gentlemen! ‘Slid, they were born to undo us, I think; but, for my part, I’ll make an oath before Master Quomodo here, ne’er to do gentlemen good while I live.
FALSELIGHT
I’ll not be long behind you.
SHORTYARD
[to Easy] Away! If you had any grace in you, you would be ashamed to look us i’th’ face, iwis! I wonder with what brow you can come amongst us. I should seek my fortunes far enough, if I were you, and neither return to Essex, to be a shame to my predecessors, nor remain about London, to be a mock to my successors.
QUOMODO
[aside] Subtle Shortyard!
SHORTYARD
Here are his lands forfeited to us, Master Quomodo; and to avoid the inconscionable trouble of law, all the assurance he made to us, we willingly resign to you.
QUOMODO
What shall l do with rubbish? Give me money!
’Tis for your worships to have land, that keep great houses; I should be hoisted.
SHORTYARD
But, Master Quomodo, if you would but conceive it aright, the land would fall fitter to you than to us.
EASY
[aside] Curts’ing about my land!
SHORTYARD
You have a towardly son and heir, as we hear.
QUOMODO
I must needs say, he is a Templar indeed.
SHORTYARD
We have neither posterity in town, nor hope for any abroad; we have wives, but the marks have been out of their mouths these twenty years, and, as it appears, they did little good when they were in. We could not stand about it, sir; to get riches and children too, ’tis more than one man can do. And I am of those citizens’ minds that say, let our wives make shift for children an they will, they get none of us; and I cannot think but he that has both much wealth and many children, has had more helps coming in than himself.
QUOMODO
I am not a bow wide of your mind, sir. And for the thrifty and covetous hopes I have in my son and heir, Sim Quomodo, that he will never trust his land in wax and parchment, as many gentlemen have done before him —
EASY
[aside] A by-blow for me.
QUOMODO
I will honestly discharge you, and receive it in due form and order of law, to strengthen it forever to my son and heir, that he may undoubtedly enter upon’t without the let or molestation of any man, at his or our pleasure whensoever.
SHORTYARD
’Tis so assured unto you.
QUOMODO
Why, then, Master Easy, you’re a free man, sir.
You may deal in what you please and go whither you will.
[Enter Thomasine]
Why, Thomasine, Master Easy is come from Essex; bid him welcome in a cup of small beer.
THOMASINE
[aside] Not only vile, but in it tyrannous.
QUOMODO
If it please you, sir, you know the house; you may visit us often, and dine with us once a quarter.
EASY
Confusion light on you, your wealth and heir;
Worms gnaw your conscience, as the moth your ware.
I am not the first heir that robbed or begged.
Exit [with Thomasine following]
QUOMODO
Excellent, excellent, sweet spirits!
SHORTYARD
Landed Master Quomodo!
QUOMODO
Delicate Shortyard, commodious Falselight,
Hug and away, shift, shift;
’Tis sleight, not strength, that gives the greatest lift.
[Exeunt Shortyard and Falselight]
Now my desires are full — for this time.
Men may have cormorant wishes, but, alas,
A little thing, three hundred pound a year,
Suffices nature, keeps life and soul together.
I’ll have ‘em lopped immediately; I long
To warm myself by th’ wood.
A fine journey in the Whitsun holidays, i’faith, to ride down with a number of citizens, and their wives, some upon pillions, some upon sidesaddles. I and little
Thomasine i’th’ middle, our son and heir, Sim Quomodo, in a peach-colour taffeta jacket, some horselength or a long yard before us. There will be a fine show on’s, I can tell you, where we citizens will laugh and lie down, get all our wives with child against a bank, and get up again. — Stay, ha! Hast thou that wit, i’faith. ‘Twill be admirable. To see how the very thought of green fields puts a man into sweet inventions. I will presently possess Sim Quomodo of all the land. I have a toy and I’ll do’t. And because I see before mine eyes that most of our heirs prove notorious rioters after our deaths, and that cozenage in the father wheels about to folly in the son, our posterity commonly foiled at the same weapon at which we played rarely; and being the world’s beaten word, what’s got over the devil’s back (that’s by knavery) must be spent under his belly (that’s by lechery); being awake in these knowings, why should not I oppose ‘em now, and break destiny of her custom, preventing that by policy, which without it must needs be destiny? And I have took the course! I will forthwith sicken, call for my keys, make my will, and dispose of all. Give my son this blessing, that he trust no man, keep his hand from a quean and a scrivener, live in his father’s faith, and do good to nobody. Then will I begin to rave like a fellow of a wide conscience, and, for all the world, counterfeit to the life that which I know I shall do when I die: take on for my gold, my lands, and my writings, grow worse and worse, call upon the devil, and so make an end. By this time I have indented with a couple of searchers, who, to uphold my device, shall fray them Out o’th’ chamber with report of sickness, and so, la, I start up, and recover again. For in this business I will trust, no, not my spirits, Falselight and Shortyard, but in disguise note the condition of all: how pitiful my wife takes my death, which will appear by November in her eye, and the fall of the leaf in her body, but especially by the cost she bestows upon my funeral, there shall I try her love and regard; my daughter’s marrying to my will and liking; and my son’s affection after my disposing. For, to conclude, I am as jealous of this land as of my wife, to know what would become of it after my decease. Exit
Enter Courtesan with her disguised Father
FATHER
Though I be poor, ’tis my glory to live honest.
COURTESAN
I prithee, do not leave me.
FATHER
To be bawd.
Hell has not such an office.
I thought at first your mind had been preserved
In virtue and in modesty of blood,
That such a face had not been made to please
The unsettled appetites of several men,
Those eyes turned up through prayer, not through lust;
But you are wicked, and my thoughts unjust.
COURTESAN
Why thou art an unreasonable fellow, i’faith.
Do not all trades live by their ware, and yet called honest livers? Do they not thrive best when they utter most, and make it away by the great? Is not wholesale the chiefest merchandise? Do you think some merchants could keep their wives so brave but for their wholesale?
You’re foully deceived an you think so.
FATHER
You are so glued to punishment and shame,
Your words e’en deserve whipping.
To bear the habit of a gentlewoman,
And be in mind so distant.
COURTESAN
Why, you fool you, are not gentlewomen sinners? And there’s no courageous sinner amongst us, but was a gentlewoman by the mother’s side, I warrant you. Besides, we are not always bound to think those our fathers that marry our mothers, but those that lie with our mothers, and they may be gentlemen born, and born again, for ought we know, you know.
FATHER
True, corruption may well be generation’s first;
‘We’re bad by nature, but by custom worst.’ Exeunt
A bell tolls, a confused cry within
THOMASINE
[within] O, my husband!
SIM
[within] My father, O, my father!
FALSELIGHT
[within] My sweet master, dead!
Enter Shortyard and the Boy
SHORTYARD
Run boy, bid ‘em ring out. He dead, he’s gone.
BOY
Then is as arrant a knave gone, as ‘ere was called upon. [Exit]
SHORTYARD
The happiest good that ever Shortyard felt,
I want to be expressed, my mirth is such;
To be struck now, e’en when his joys were high.
Men only kiss their knaveries, and so die,
I’ve often marked it.
He was a famous coz’ner while he lived,
And now his son shall reap it; I’ll ha’ the lands,
Let him study law after; ’tis no labour
To undo him forever. But for Easy,
Only good confidence did make him foolish,
And not the lack of sense, that was not it;
’Tis worldly craft beats down a scholar’s wit.
For this our son and heir now, he
From his conception was entailed an ass,
And he has kept it well, twenty-five years now.
Then the slightest art will do’t; the lands lie fair:
‘No sin to beggar a deceiver’s heir. ‘ Exit
Enter Thomasine with Winifred, her maid, in haste
THOMASINE
Here, Winifred, here, here, here. I have always found thee secret.
WINIFRED
You shall always find me so, Mistress.
THOMASINE
Take this letter and this ring.
WINIFRED
Yes, forsooth.
THOMASINE
O, how all the parts about me shake! Inquire for one Master Easy at his old lodging i’th’ Blackfriars.
WINIFRED
I will indeed, forsooth.
THOMASINE
Tell him the party that sent him a hundred pound t’other day to comfort his heart has likewise sent him this letter and this ring, which has that virtue to recover him again forever, say. Name nobody, Winifred.
WINIFRED
Not so much as you, forsooth.
THOMASINE
Good girl. Thou shalt have a mourning gown at the burial, of mine honesty.
WINIFRED
And I’ll effect your will, o’ my fidelity. Exit
THOMASINE
I do account myself the happiest widow that ever counterfeited weeping, in that I have the leisure now, both to do that gentleman good, and do myself a pleasure; but I must seem like a hanging moon, a little waterish awhile.
Enter Rearage, Courtesan’s Father following
REARAGE
entertain both thee and thy device;
‘Twill put ‘em both to shame.
FATHER
That is my hope, sir.
Especially that strumpet. [Exit]
REARAGE
Save you, sweet widow!
I suffer for your heaviness.
THOMASINE
O, Master Rearage, I have lost the dearest husband that ever woman did enjoy.
REARAGE
You must have patience yet.
THOMASINE
O, talk not to me of patience an you love me, good Master Rearage.
REARAGE
Yet, if all tongues go right, he did not use you so well as a man mought.
THOMASINE
Nay, that’s true indeed, Master Rearage. He ne’er used me so well as a woman might have been used, that’s certain; in troth, ‘t’as been our greatest falling out, sir. And though it be the part of a widow to show herself a woman for her husband’s death, yet when I remember all his unkindness, I cannot weep a stroke, i’faith, Master Rearage. And therefore wisely did a great widow in this land comfort up another: ‘Go to, lady’, quoth she, ‘leave blubbering; thou thinkest upon thy husband’s good parts when thou sheddest tears, do but remember how often he has lain from thee, and how many naughty slippery turns he has done thee, and thou wilt ne’er weep for him, I warrant thee.’ You would not think how that counsel has wrought with me, Master Rearage; I could not dispend another tear now, an you would give me ne’er so much.
REARAGE
Why, I count you the wiser widow. It shows you have wisdom, when you can check your passion. For mine own part, I have no sense to sorrow for his death, whose life was the only rub to my affection.
THOMASINE
Troth, and so it was to mine. But take courage now; you’re a landed gentleman, and my daughter is seven hundred pound strong to join with you.
REARAGE
But Lethe lies i’th’ way.
THOMASINE
Let him lie still;
You shall tread o’er him or I’ll fail in will.
REARAGE
Sweet widow! Exeunt
Enter Quomodo like a Beadle
QUOMODO
What a beloved man did I live? My servants gall their fingers with wringing, my wife’s cheeks smart with weeping, tears stand in every comer; you may take water in my house. But am not I a wise fool now? What if my wife should take my death so to heart, that she should sicken upon’t, nay, swoon, nay, die? When did I hear of a woman do so? Let me see; now I remember me, I think ’twas before my time. Yes, I have heard of those wives that have wept, and sobbed, and swooned; marry, I never heard but they recovered again; that’s a comfort, la, that’s a comfort, and I hope so will mine. Peace, ’tis near upon the time. I see; here comes the worshipful livery. I have the Hospital Boys; I perceive little Thomasine will bestow cost of me.
I’ll listen to the common censure now, How the world tongues me when my ear lies low.
Enter the Livery [and Hospital Boys]
FIRST LIVERYMAN
Who, Quomodo? Merely enriched by shifts
And cozenages, believe it.
QUOMODO
[aside]
I see the world is very loath to praise me,
’Tis rawly friends with me; I cannot blame it,
For what I have done has been to vex and shame it.
Here comes my son, the hope, the landed heir,
One whose rare thrift will say, “Men’s tongues, you lie;
I’ll keep by law what was got craftily.”
[Enter Sim]
Methinks I hear him say so.
He does salute the livery with good grace
And solemn gesture. —
[To Sim] O, my young worshipful master, you have parted from a dear father, a wise and provident father.
SIM
Art thou grown an ass now?
QUOMODO
Such an honest father —
SIM
Prithee, beadle, leave thy lying. I am scarce able to endure thee, i’faith. What honesty didst thou e’er know by my father? Speak. Rule your tongue, beadle, lest I make you prove it, and then I know what will become of you. ’Tis the scurviest thing i’th’ earth to belie the dead so, and he’s a beastly son and heir that will stand by and hear his father belied to his face; he will ne’er prosper, I warrant him. Troth, if I be not ashamed to go to church with him, I would I might be hanged; I hear such filthy tales go on him. O, if I had known he had been such a lewd fellow in his life, he should ne’er have kept me company.
QUOMODO
[aside] O, O, O!
SIM
But I am glad he’s gone, though ‘twere long first; Shortyard and I will revel it i’faith; I have made him my rent-gatherer already.
QUOMODO
[aside] He shall be speedily disinherited; he gets not a foot, not the crown of a molehill. I’ll sooner make a courtier my heir, for teaching my wife tricks, than thee. My most neglectful son! O, now the corse; I shall observe yet farther.
A counterfeit corse brought in, [followed by] Thomasine, [Mother,] and all the mourners equally counterfeit O, my most modest, virtuous, and rememb’ring wife;
She shall have all when I die, she shall have all.
Enter Easy
THOMASINE
[aside] Master Easy. ’Tis. O, what shift shall I make now? O! (She falls down in a feigned swoon)
QUOMODO
[aside] Sweet wife, she swoons. I’ll let her alone.
I’ll have no mercy at this time. I’ll not see her; I’ll follow the corse. Exit
EASY
The devil grind thy bones, thou cozening rascal!
MOTHER
Give her a little more air, tilt up her head. — Comfort thyself good widow; do not fall like a beast for a husband. There’s more than we can well tell where to put ‘em, good soul.
THOMASINE
O, I shall be well anon.
MOTHER
Fie, you have no patience, i’faith. I have buried four husbands, and never offered ‘em such abuse.
THOMASINE
Cousin, how do you?
EASY
Sorry to see you ill, coz.
THOMASINE
The worst is past, I hope.
Pointing after the coffin
EASY
I hope so too.
THOMASINE
Lend me your hand, sweet coz, I have troubled you.
MOTHER
No trouble indeed, forsooth. — [To Easy] Good cousin, have a care of her, comfort her up as much as you can, and all little enough, I warrant ye.
Exeunt [Mother and Mourners]
THOMASINE
My most sweet love!
EASY
My life is not so dear.
THOMASINE
I have always pitied you.
EASY
You’ve shown it here,
And given the desperate hope!
THOMASINE
Delay not now,
You’ve understood my love; I have a priest ready;
This is the fittest season, no eye offends us.
Let this kiss
Restore thee to more wealth, me to more bliss.
EASY
The angels have provided for me. [Exeunt]
Finis Actus Quartus